CANNES, _February 10, 1870_.
DEAR FRIEND: If I have not written to you for a long time, it is because
I have had nothing but sad things to tell you of myself. I am more and
more ailing, and the life I lead is truly miserable. I sleep hardly at
all, and suffer nearly all the time I am awake. Besides, the winter has
been a frightful one. All the lovely flowers which made the glory of the
country have been destroyed, many of the orange-trees have been frozen,
and not enough flowers are left to make you any pomade. Imagine the
effect produced on a being nervous as I, by rain, hail, and cold. One
suffers here ten times more from all these than he would in Paris.
So, then, you have had an insurrection, which was as silly as the
hero[45] who was its instigator. We present a melancholy spectacle of
ourselves, by the fashion in which we make use of our liberty and of
parliamentary government. It is impossible not to be struck by the
really laughable audacity with which propositions of the most monstrous
kind are presented and maintained in the Chambers, which no one would
dare to utter in a salon. This representative government is a comedy
which one can hardly call amusing. Everybody in it lies with effrontery,
and nevertheless, every one lets himself be taken in by the most skilful
liar. There are persons who consider Crémieux eloquent, and think that
Rochefort is a worthy citizen. We were certainly stupid enough in 1848,
but we are even more so to-day.
I am making the experiment of using a paper of English manufacture, and
do not know whether you will be able to read what I write. I have just
translated for the _Revue_ a novel by Tourguenieff, which will appear
next month. I am writing for myself, and perhaps for you, a little story
in which the situation is largely one of love.
Good-bye. I wish you health and prosperity.